Manhandle

“Why are you here, Steve?” I crossed my arms on my chest, my eyes meeting his. His gaze was like daggers. He said nothing but reached out, his fingers closing firmly around my arm before he began to drag me toward the apartment door.

His grip was a possessive demand, a clear sign he wasn’t here to talk, he was here to assert his control.

“Let go of me!” I struggled, twisting in his grasp. “Stop it, Steve, you're hurting me,” I cried out.

He looked down at his hand on my arm, and a flicker of something, not regret but surprise, crossed his face. He slowly loosened his grip, releasing me. His expression crumpled, as if the thought of harming me had just dawned on him.

“So you and him are like a thing now?” he finally spoke.

Him? He means Luke. What right does he have to even ask?

“No.”

“Then why did he hug and kiss you?”

“That's none of your business, Steve.” I replied, rolling my eyes. “You need to leave. I have to prepare for my shift at the bar.”

I’m not doing this with him. Not agai